


Faerie Tales Don't Have Happy Endings

by IHaveNeverBeenWise



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: I am unable to write happy things I'm sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNeverBeenWise/pseuds/IHaveNeverBeenWise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People seem to think that they’re something out of a faerie tale. But then again, people also seem to forget what it was that fairy tales contained. People don’t remember the girl who begged the woodsman to cut off her dancing feet; they gloss over the mermaid who died and turned to foam when her love so thoroughly rejected her. People leave out the fact that no hunstman saved the child in the red cloak, and no one even talks about the father who hacked off his daughter’s feet to please the devil. No, a faerie tale is not something one wishes to emulate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faerie Tales Don't Have Happy Endings

People seem to think that they’re something out of a fairy tale. "Look at them," they say. "Jehan and Courfeyrac being sickeningly cute. At least a couple of us have a healthy, normal relationship. At least a couple of us can be happy." But then again, people also seem to forget what it was that fairy tales contained. People don’t remember the girl who begged the woodsman to cut off her dancing feet; they gloss over the mermaid who died and turned to foam when her love so thoroughly rejected her. People leave out the fact that no hunstman saved the child in the red cloak, and no one even talks about the father who hacked off his daughter’s feet to please the devil. No, a fairy tale is not something one wishes to emulate.

It had been good, in the beginning. Perfect even. Jehan Prouvaire, searching for love, had believed he’d found it and thrown himself into it mind, body, and soul. And it had been reciprocated, Courfeyrac following every step. Casual touches, whispered words of love, fumbling in the dark when all else fails. They had not argued like Enjolras and Grantaire, did not face the complications of Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta. Between them, it was open and easy and warm. The apartment they shared was cozy; tea and coffee were readily available, plants lined the windowsills, there were blankets and armchairs and a couch occupying the corner that were favored spots for early-morning cuddling. Courfeyrac worked at the nonprofit between classes and Jehan took shifts at the coffee shop on weekends and week nights, and even if they were not wealthy the income was steady.

Everything ends someday.

Someone says this, "This too shall pass" carved onto a ring to make the king smile, to make the king cry. The king does indeed smile, and the king does indeed sob.

And even though everything ends, it doesn’t always end quickly. Sometimes, the end is so slow that you don’t even know it until you turn around and call for them only to realise that they have not been there in such a very long time.

This is what happens with Courfeyrac. It’s not his fault, it’s not anyone’s fault. It simply is. And there’s nothing that can be done about it. It started months ago - a year maybe. A little more time spent out, less time spent talking and more time spent in silence. The little things disappeared - flowers brought home and left on the pillows, waking up an hour earlier to make breakfast rather than eating out, a kiss on the cheek in passing for the sheer joy of it. Gradually, the novelty wore off. The little gestures faded away, becoming far and few between. Neither of them noticed. That’s not to say neither of them cared. And nothing much changed. Jehan still writes his poetry (although it may be a little more melancholy than it was before) and Courfeyrac still smiles and laughs (although maybe there’s a slightly lost look in his eyes). 

And one day, when Jehan looks over his shoulder, Courfeyrac’s not there. And it hurts, it cuts so deeply not because he’s surprised but because he isn’t. And oh how he wishes that this came as a shock, this distance, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t, not really. He carries the dull pain of it with him all day, bowed under the weight of it. And when Courfeyrac comes home that night, Jehan is there to meet him. Their embrace is familiar, but it lacks something and Jehan feels the loss more than he ever has before. And before they pull away, Jehan whispers something in Courfeyrac’s ear.

It is not 'I love you.'

They sleep in separate beds that night.


End file.
